THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS
Vol. 8  No. 9   An Online Chapter of Missouri State Poetry Society    August  2009

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  @ Free Foto.com

SURPRISE, SURPRISE!

In the spring they do not produce blooms.  Rather they produce thick, flat blades that form clumps, then die--or so it seems.  But actually in the spring they store in their just-under-the surface bulbs the nutrients they will need at the end of July and the beginning of August when surprise, surprise they send up bare stalks two feet long or so to support lily-like blooms of pale pink--the naked ladies, one variety of the amaryllises that bring us beauty in mid-summer.  What an analogy can be made to the poet who stores up nutrients of experience that later will bloom in poems!  A friend of mine told me she looks at birdbaths differently after reading a poem about a birdbath.  Maybe you will look at the amaryllises in your yard (or the one pictured above) a bit differently as you write your next poem.      -- Tom Padgett

 

CONTENTS:

Past Issue Next
       
Poems by Members
         
Workshop

Missouri State Poetry Society


 

Summer Contest

Spare Mule Online

National Society of State Poetry Societies

Strophes Online
 
 
 

HAVE YOU VISITED THE WORKSHOP LATELY?
Click Workshop and do some of the lessons there.
If you have an idea for a new lesson, send it along. 

HAVE YOU READ YOUR ONLINE NEWSLETTERS?
Read  Spare Mule Online and  Strophes Online available by clicking the underlined titles.

HAVE YOU ENTERED A MSPS CONTEST RECENTLY?
Our state president is encouraging us to enter the MSPS Summer Contest

HAVE YOU SEEN THE BULLETIN BOARD LATELY? 
Visit our MSPS Bulletin Board for news of events and contests in our area.
 
 


AMERICAN LIFE IN POETRY

Ted Kooser, former U. S. Poet Laureate, in response to an interviewer for National Public Radio, stated that his "project" as laureate was to establish a weekly column featuring contemporary American poems supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska.  This column appears in online publications (such as Thirty-Seven Cents) as well as hard-copy newspapers.  Poets are asked to contact their local newspapers to inform them that such a column is available free to them and to relieve the editor by explaining that all of the poems that will appear week by week are accessible, not obscure, poems. 

American Life in Poetry: Column 223
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006.

There's lots of literature about the loss of innocence, because we all share in that loss and literature is about what we share. Here's a poem by Alexandra Teague, a San Franciscan, in which a child's awakening to the alphabet coincides with another awakening: the unsettling knowledge that all of us don't see things in the same way.

Language Lessons

The carpet in the kindergarten room
was alphabet blocks; all of us fidgeting
on bright, primary letters. On the shelf
sat that week's inflatable sound. The "th"
was shaped like a tooth. We sang
about brushing up and down, practiced
exhaling while touching our tongues
to our teeth. Next week, a puffy U
like an upside-down umbrella; the rest
of the alphabet deflated. Some days,
we saw parents through the windows
to the hallway sky. "Look, a fat lady,"
a boy beside me giggled. Until then
I'd only known my mother as beautiful.


American Life in Poetry: Column 225
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

There have been many poems written in which a photograph is described in detail, and this one by Margaret Kaufman, of the Bay Area in California, uses the snapshot to carry her further, into the details of memory.

Photo, Brownie Troop, St. Louis, 1949

I'm going to put Karen Prasse right here
in front of you on this page
so that you won't mistake her for something else,
an example of precocity, for instance,
a girl who knew that the sky (blue crayon)
was above the earth (green crayon)
and did not, as you had drawn it, come right down
to the green on which your three bears stood.
You can tell from her outfit that she is a Brownie.
You can tell from her socks that she knows how
to line things up, from her mouth that she may
grow up mean or simply competent. Do not mistake
her for an art critic: when she told you
the first day of first grade that your drawing
was "wrong," you stood your ground and told her
to look out the window. Miss Voss told your mom
you were going to be a good example of something,
although you cannot tell from the way your socks sag,
nor from your posture, far from Brownie-crisp.
This is not about you for a change, but about
mis-perception, of which Karen was an early example.
Who knows? She may have meant to be helpful,
though that is not always a virtue,
and gets in the way of some art.


 		 American Life in Poetry: Column 224
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

When we're young, it seems there are endless possibilities for lives we might lead, and then as we grow older and the opportunities get fewer we begin to realize that the life we've been given is the only one we're likely to get. Here's Jean Nordhaus, of the Washington, D.C. area, exploring this process.

I Was Always Leaving

I was always leaving, I was
about to get up and go, I was
on my way, not sure where.
Somewhere else. Not here.
Nothing here was good enough.

It would be better there, where I
was going. Not sure how or why.
The dome I cowered under
would be raised, and I would be released
into my true life. I would meet there

the ones I was destined to meet.
They would make an opening for me
among the flutes and boulders,
and I would be taken up. That this
might be a form of death

did not occur to me. I only know
that something held me back,
a doubt, a debt, a face I could not
leave behind. When the door
fell open, I did not go through.


American Life in Poetry: Column 226
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

Elizabeth Bishop, one of our greatest American poets, once wrote a long poem in which the sudden appearance of a moose on a highway creates a community among a group of strangers on a bus. Here Ronald Wallace, a Wisconsin poet, gives us a sighting with similar results.

Sustenance

Australia. Phillip Island. The Tasman Sea.
Dusk. The craggy coastline at low tide in fog.
Two thousand tourists milling in the stands
as one by one, and then in groups, the fairy penguins
mass up on the sand like so much sea wrack and
debris. And then, as on command, the improbable
parade begins: all day they've been out fishing
for their chicks, and now, somehow, they find them
squawking in their burrows in the dunes, one by one,
two by two, such comical solemnity, as wobbling by
they catch our eager eyes until we're squawking, too,
in English, French, and Japanese, Yiddish and Swahili,
like some happy wedding party brought to tears
by whatever in the ceremony repairs the rifts
between us. The rain stops. The fog lifts. Stars.
And we go home, less hungry, satisfied, to friends
and family, regurgitating all we've heard and seen.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

POEMS BY MEMBERS

DEPENDABLE FLOWERS
Pat Durmon

I count on them
to satisfy my heart, my mind, my eyes.

Tall garden phlox— they absolutely
flaunt their fragrance. Can you imagine
the puffy pink clusters nodding their great heads?
I watch them fight wilting on hot afternoons
and the butterflies flying and flitting about them.
Whatever their distress, they
somehow stay upright and gracious.

So like some women I know
in the South.
 

MOM
Faye Adams

Generous to a fault
and stubborn as a mule;
a bit older than dirt
but as a general rule--

we treasure your smile,
love your sense of humor;
we applaud your spunk
and we've spread the rumor--

that in your younger days
you ate fatback and greens
and could wield a switch
that made us shoot our beans.

In spite of all the memories
and recurring nightmare scenes,
we're proud to call you Mom
and glad we've got your genes.


RESPITE
(A variation on a Minute)
Pat Laster

The living room in my new house,
a place to browse,
through thirteen shelves
(or is it twelve?)
of books collected sixty years--
some souvenirs,
new, second hand,
a wonderland
of titles, authors, famed and not--
O'Dell, Alcott;
the wall bookcase
my favorite place.


EARLY MORNING WHISPERS
Diane Auser Stefan

The breeze in the trees
really does whisper.

As I walk the ridge road
atop Petit Jean Mountain,
the trees hush my daybreak trespass.
 
Here and there a man-cut break
opens a view to the valley below—
milky-chocolate Arkansas River
spilling over and through
green patchwork fields.

Like Frost on his snowy evening,
I stop, listen and watch–
morning calves milking their mothers,
skittery horse prancing over fields,
birds bursting onto breezes.

Filling fast with the pure joy
of this pre-day gift, I head home,
then stop again– a skunk,
black, big, shiny back
with white stripe,
as effective a roadblock
as a same-hued police car.
I let him own the road
for as long as he wants.


TONGUES
Dave Gregg

in certain parts
of Africa they
speak one thousand
languages each day
a dozen dialects
a minute and if you
go there and listen
you will understand
and if you do not
Africa will be on your
lips forever unspoken


THE OLD FISHERMAN'S TALE, PART 1:
DON'T TELL MY SECRETS NOW, YOU HEAR?
Tania Gray

I did right good near highway K--
them bass in ten foot water took
my football jigs, I trolled some twelve
foot out with Hot N Tots, got walleye.

Next day at Beaver Creek used jigs
with spinners, rattle traps, white bass
come up real good.  I’ve tried way out
the lake at Buck Creek, walleyes all

I got, the rest too slow.  The best
I did at Theodosia--
oh man the white bass, trolled with small
crank baits by creeks.  Black bass all day

depends on bait.  Bull Shoals‘s the best.
I’ve tried the rivers, just for trout,
ol’ ‘Leven Point right now be good,
nice chilly water, minnows s’all.

Went out with cousin Donald on
the Jack’s Fork some, got smallmouth bass
when full and clear, them plastic lures.
You bet the fishin’s good down here.

(Secrets? Just read the fish reports!)


EPISTLE FROM MY MOTHER
Henrietta Romman

Dear Daughter,

You said while I was
in the world, I failed
to train your heart,
to part, when death
comes to your home.
Is not this a wild
world that welcomes
babes at birth?
While mothers seek
God’s mode, what
more is there my child
than tend then defend
their own as God
wants all to do?
To shield you from
the claw of sorrow
in death was no deceit,
but my strong act of love.
As a sure-footed deer
sheltering its own
from the jungle’s diverse
dangers, can she ever
keep fowlers away?
So have you done…
the day your own
grown son had to go.
Learn to cherish the
counsel of wise Moms.
“Let the Good Book
teach them,” they said,
“death is a sweet passage
into the presence of
Eternal Love. Still !
It will forever leave
behind a total taste
of bitter grief. ”

In love, Your Mother


 


 

 

  

TRANSACTION
Laurence W. Thomas

The path seems to end at the stream
or maybe it continues on the other side.
I see you in the crossing
and offer you the stream.

Turning down stream, I find the security
of a large boulder after I leap
from a smaller one where I teetered
momentarily. I give you the rock.

There is something shining there:
a gold nugget maybe, a silver spoon
down deep, but the water covers it
and the sun splashes on the surface

so all I can see is the sky
broken into ripples and clouds churning.
I will give you the path, the rock, the stream
if you will show me the source.
 

RIVER MY RIVER
Dewell H. Byrd

My windows gather wind,
light and time;
I watch you reflect
granite mountains
that squeeze droplets
into rivulets.
Water giggles over pebbles,
hurries into streams.

Timeless wings hover
over your laughter,
welcome the quiet who-night.

River--you who carried me
on my life’s journey:
ebbing, flowing,
waiting until the ocean
sucked me dry and the owl
called my name--
hide your reflections in night’s curtain.

River, My River,
why have you turned dark?
The mouth of the night is open.
What is there to believe in now?
 

SUMMER
Freeda Baker Nichols

That time of year following spring.
Hot, dusty, sweaty.
Make-up running down ladies’ faces.
Time to complain how hot the weather is
and how you wish it would cool off.
The shade of a tree is welcome
after a long walk in the sun.
Seeds ripening, shooting forth.
Okra stalks standing tall.
Okra must be picked, even when
you don’t want any more okra.
You’ve had fried okra, boiled okra,
and fried okra again,
until it begins to taste flat.
The old swimming hole,
children laughing.
Summer.


THE FACT OF THE MATTER IS
Jennifer Smith

The fact of the matter is
It matters not what humans think.
It only matters what God sees
When He looks at you and He looks at me.
In all His perfect holiness,
Does He see the righteousness
Of Jesus?

The fact of the matter is
By ourselves we go amiss.
Righteousness cannot be earned.
Our best works will always be spurned.
The best we can do is like filthy rags.
There’s nothing about us to cause us to brag.
It's all about His righteousness
By grace it’s imputed to us
Through Jesus!

The fact of the matter is
Everyone will see Him as He is.
Every knee will bow before Him.
All will worship and adore Him.
All will know His Holy Name
With the angels all will proclaim –
Jesus!
 

THE DAY YOU TOOK THE LAUGHTER WITH YOU
Harding Stedler

Today, there will be no sirens
as you ride on cushioned gurney
up the four-lane
to what will be your new home.
The Sunfish Mountains
await your crossing
as the town you leave behind
weeps at your departure.

It's hard to leave behind a lifetime
and start anew unwell.
So much of you is left there--
the trees you hugged,
your dancing footsteps
on the pavement of Second Street--
but you took the laughter
that sustained you . . .
sustained all of us in trying times.

May the mountains wrap you
in their arms and comfort you
in thanks for all the joy
you gave countless others
where the muddy, winding River*
called our names.

* the Ohio River, which passes
along Portsmouth's shores


NAKED LADIES
Tom Padgett

 My asthmatic passenger snorted in delight:
"Look at the naked ladies on the lawn!"

Abruptly peering right, I searched--
unconscious that the car had veered

until a pot-hole's solid jolt
jerked against our seat belts.

I strained the anger from my voice:
"What naked ladies?  Where?"

Laughing as she coughed and shook her head,
then waived her handkerchief, she said:

"There.  Right there.  We call them that.
Their real name is amaryllis."

 

VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN ASSIGNMENT.

Top |  Workshop |  Index